Bosses, Balance, and Bacon
by Firebirdie
Summary: In which Russia and America discuss all three over breakfast. No capitalists were harmed in the making of this fic.


**Bosses, Balance, and Bacon**

"I had the _weirdest_ dream last night," Alfred said through a jaw-cracking yawn. He shuffled over to the refrigerator, yanked it open, and stared blankly at the contents for a good fifteen seconds before reaching in and extracting a carton of eggs and a package of microwavable bacon.

Ivan finished setting up the coffee pot and leaned against the kitchen counter. He waited. ". . . Yes?"

"Huh?"

"Your dream," he prompted, eyes following the groggy American back across the kitchen to the stove. Alfred reached it, glanced at the egg carton in his hand, grunted in irritation, and turned to Ivan.

"Scoot, will ya? Gotta get a pan for these . . . Yeah, it was about Sealand and Romano taking over the world." Alfred nudged Ivan out of the way and opened the cabinet under the counter to rummage for a pan. "Only some French cardinal--he was in _The Three Musketeers_, the bad guy, only Francis says he wasn't all that bad--and that one Prussian guy with the mustache . . . what's his name . . . Bismarck! Yeah, they came back from space with all these killer teapots, right, and then everyone went to Antarctica and I think you were there, too . . . Something about cabbages? I dunno."

Ivan stared at him. Alfred turned on the stove and placed the pan over the burner.

"Killer teapots?"

"Yep."

_"Otto von Bismarck?"_

"I told you it was weird." He got a fork and a bowl out of a different cabinet and cracked two eggs. Stirring them vigorously, he said, "You want any?"

"No, thank you."

The sunny yellow yolks bled into the clear slimy egg whites and Alfred shrugged. He dumped the eggs into the pan, started scraping them around with a spatula. "And it's really weird 'cause Francis and Gilbert don't usually mention those bosses; it's always, like, Jeanne d'Arc and Frederick the Great . . . Go figure."

Ivan made a noncommittal noise of assent. The scrambled eggs sizzled in the pan.

"Would you nuke those for me real quick?" Alfred asked, indicating the bacon with the spatula.

"I don't think you'd like them if they were radioactive," Ivan said dryly.

"Ah, shut up, commie."

Ivan shook his head, smiling a little, and gingerly arranged several slices of bacon on a plate. "Isn't this cannibalism?" he said.

"Wait, what? It's pig meat!"

"Yes, and you are a capitalist pig."

". . . Har, har. Aren't we witty this morning."

Ivan shut the microwave door on the bacon and pushed the ADD MINUTE button. "You started it."

Alfred snorted. He turned off the stove and transferred the eggs to another plate. "You ever dream about your bosses?"

". . . No."

"Even the good ones?"

Ivan wrinkled his nose as the smell of frying bacon permeated the entire kitchen. He eyed the timer on the microwave and shut it off as it reached 00:01 to preempt its annoying beeping; after turning over the bacon slices and adding another thirty seconds, he was still considering how to answer.

". . . Ivan?"

"Da?"

"Did you ever . . . have someone like that? A boss you, y'know, actually liked?"

The microwave shrieked. Ivan grimaced and pulled out the bacon, the ceramic plate hot against his fingertips as he brought it over to the kitchen table. Alfred followed him with his scrambled eggs. They sat down across from each other and Ivan gave him a long, appraising look. Then he sighed. "I did."

"Who?"

He went with the safest. "Catherine."

"The one who slept around?" Alfred said incredulously.

Ivan's stare cooled several degrees; the smaller man cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly in his seat. "Yes, the one who _slept around_," Ivan said after a moment. "Because she did whatever was necessary. She . . ." He trailed off and dropped his gaze to his hands, resting on the tabletop, large and callused and scarred. "She was not Russian, but she loved our land, almost to a fault."

"She believed in you."

"Da."

Alfred nodded and sat back. "And you believed in her. Has to go both ways, doesn't it? Most bosses think they're doing right by their countries, but . . ."

"But."

They were silent for several minutes. The coffee pot finished burbling and Alfred poured himself a cup, offering Ivan an empty one and putting it back when he shook his head. Alfred picked at his breakfast, sipped the coffee, and stared out the window at the brightening sky. Ivan fiddled with the end of his scarf--it was getting ragged again; he'd have to ask Yekaterina to fix it soon, but the meantime he was simply thankful they were still on speaking terms. Sort of.

"Who was yours?" Ivan asked while Alfred was in the midst of a mouthful of scrambled egg.

"Mmph? Mmgnn--fff." He swallowed. "Sorry. Uh, there were a few. Lincoln, for one. Christ, that guy worked his ass off holdin' everything together. And Teddy was great. Franklin Roosevelt--he kept things sane when it all went to hell. And Kennedy, he was--" Alfred stopped, looking evasive.

"Missile crisis," Ivan muttered, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Alfred laughed, a little nervously still. "Yeah, that. I'm kinda glad we didn't blow each other up."

"As is the rest of the world, I'm sure."

"Heh. True. So . . . was it just Catherine, or . . . I mean, what about, like, Lenin?"

Ivan's smile froze. "Lenin was fine," he said stiffly.

". . . Sorry. I shouldn't have--sorry."

Unexpected, but not unappreciated. He relaxed.

"You sure you don't want anything to eat? Mattie left some pancake mix from the last time he visited if bacon isn't your thing."

"No, thank you."

"Bacon, Ivan. Delicious, crisp, juicy bacon--"

"--which is an excellent indicator of the health problems facing your society--"

"I have just one word to say to you, _Vanya_. Vodka. We all have our guilty pleasures."

"At least mine is not so greasy that it leaves a puddle on the plate--"

"No no, y'see, in Russia, it leaves you in puddle in gutter," Alfred shot back, a faint accent creeping into his voice.

Ivan smirked. "But in America, you are left comfortably on the couch."

"'Zactly."

"Where," he practically sang, "you can remain, sedentary, immobile, atrophied, flabby--"

"Are you saying I'm fat or something?"

He actually sounded worried. Ivan shook his head, amused. "You should know by now that nations rarely suffer from that problem."

"You're one to talk, Mr. _I-Heff-Beeg-Bones,_" Alfred said, passable if petulant Russian accent back in full force.

He was never going to live that down, was he. "May I remind you, Alfred, of three very important facts: I am not a morning person, I have not eaten breakfast, and I am in possession of a faucet pipe."

Alfred gave him a skeptical look. "Did you just concede that you do want something to eat in the same breath as you _threatened_ me with a piece of plumbing?"

"Concede?" Ivan said mildly.

"Where the hell do you even keep that pipe?"

Ivan produced the pipe and placed it on the table with a solid metallic thunk. Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Ookaay . . . You're wearin' pajamas and a bathrobe, for Chrissakes--it's not like that big coat, so how--"

"Hungary can do it too. With a frying pan."

"That . . . doesn't answer my question."

"Call it a perk of being a semi-paranormal entity."

Alfred rolled his blue, blue eyes and wolfed down the last of his scrambled eggs. "Sherioushly," he mumbled, still chewing. "You shoul' eaff shome foob . . ."

"Why, America, I am touched by your consideration."

Swallow. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, get your own damn breakfast."

Ivan chuckled and stood, crossing the kitchen to the still-warm coffee pot. He poured a cup, eyed the artificial sweetener next to the cream, and decided it was better to be bitter than to be fake. Then he wondered idly whether there was a deeper philosophical meaning to that thought. Then he sat back down and drank the coffee, because if there was, he was neither awake enough nor interested enough to analyze it.

"That," America commented, "does not constitute a balanced breakfast."

Russia smiled crookedly over the rim of the cup. "I've been told that I am an unbalanced individual."

* * *

**Notes:** (skip if you don't like gratuitous history)

Cardinal Richelieu - set France on the path to absolutism and got involved in the Thirty Years' War . . . but not, interestingly, on the side of the Catholic Hapsburg countries.

Otto von Bismarck - Chancellor of Prussia who facilitated the creation of the German Empire in the 1860s-70s. Also had an epic mustache. Just so you know.

Catherine II "the Great" of Russia - German princess sent to marry future tsar, Peter III. Actually liked Russia more than Peter, who was a kind of embarrassing/creepy Frederick the Great fanboy. Booted out Peter in a coup d'etat. Had affairs with several powerful men to further her own ends. Made life miserable for the Ottoman Empire and the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. All in all, a fascinating lady.

Vladimir Lenin - led the communist October Revolution in 1917, leader of USSR early on. His New Economic Plan shifted a bit towards capitalism to jump-start Soviet economy. Did not approve of his successor, a bloke named Stalin . . .

Abraham Lincoln - President of the United States during the Civil War. But you knew that.

Teddy Roosevelt - Quite a character. Known for trust-busting (breaking up corporate monopolies), Panama Canal, and big-game safaris.

Franklin Roosevelt - known for his "New Deal" economic policy to combat the Great Depression and his involvement in WWII.

John F. Kennedy - Staunchly anti-Communist. Dealt with the Bay of Pigs fiasco, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the beginnings of the Space Race and Vietnam War.

Bacon - Like I said, no capitalists were harmed in the making of this fic, I promise!

* * *

Uh . . . I think that's it for my first fic. Comments and criticism welcomed!


End file.
